


(Hold You) Closer

by euhemeria



Series: And, In Sign of Ancient Love, Their Plighted Hands They Join [48]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Comfort Sex, Established Relationship, F/F, Intimacy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-28
Updated: 2019-01-28
Packaged: 2019-10-18 10:04:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17578814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/euhemeria/pseuds/euhemeria
Summary: Even if Angela cannot make Fareeha happy—or, rather, cannot make herbehappy, a small distinction but an important one—she can help her, nonetheless, can do all that Fareeha will allow to remind her partner that they are here, in the present, and not wherever it is Fareeha's mind wanders to on too-long nights.Or,Angela isn't the best at comforting most people, but she manages, more often than not, to be what Fareeha needs, even when it means getting her hands dirty.





	(Hold You) Closer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [luuluu5](https://archiveofourown.org/users/luuluu5/gifts).



> this is for luu!!! i meant to write it for her birthday (in may... haha) but then life came at me really fast and idek what happened! but its finally done and u know. better late than never? anyway luu is great and i love her
> 
> also yes the bit in the summary abt getting her hands dirty is literally just a fingering joke but i like to keep my summaries at least ostensibly sfw

Over the years, working as a doctor, Angela has had ample opportunity to supervise the recovery of patients through a number of traumatic injuries.  In medical school, she was taught that it is the rare patient who makes a linear recovery, and that some days will be worse than others—often for seemingly no reason—and she has learned, through her own time working, that said non-linearity is its own sort of cruelty, with patients suffering all the more for bad days which are surrounded by good. 

(In truth, this is not a thing learned entirely from observation, is something from which she too has suffered, the feeling that any small relapse _must_ somehow undo all of one’s progress, that a single bad day is proof all the prior good have been for naught; in truth, it is a thing she would do well to remember; in truth, she much prefers not to be so honest with herself.)

It is one thing to witness this in patients under her care, and another to see it applied elsewhere, to wounds not physical.  To accept that she does and will continue to have bad days, no matter how hard she tries, and how good her life becomes, is a difficult thing—to accept the same of _Fareeha_ is nearly impossible.

But she must.

It is one thing to accept her own shortcomings as a doctor, that she can heal only the physical, as a perfectionist, that the world can never be as she wants it, and as an individual, that she is so very, _very_ flawed, and her wanting to fix things, fix _everything_ , is not always good; it is quite another to accept her shortcomings as a lover, and to know that no matter what she does, no matter how _good_ she is to and for Fareeha, that she cannot heal Fareeha (that they cannot heal _each other_ ), yet accept it she must, for it cannot be changed.

Even if, on days like today, she wishes it could.

It is one thing to know that Fareeha will have bad nights (days, weeks), to know that it is a not unexpected result of their work, that it is something Fareeha has accepted that she will continue to endure (for that is what Fareeha would say, to endure and not, as Angela thinks of it, to _suffer_ , because _suffering_ is passive, and enduring is—somehow not, in her eyes), if only so that others do not have to.  It is one thing to know it, and another to see it, to watch the days pass and know that there is nothing she can do, nothing she can say, that will convince Fareeha that no good is worth this.

(It is a selfish thought, in any case, that Fareeha ought not to help others because she might suffer for it, one which benefits none save, perhaps, for Angela herself, and her selfish thoughts she dare not ever voice.)

None of this means, however, that she is entirely powerless, even if she feels so, none of this means that she cannot do small things to help—that she cannot hold Fareeha close, hold her to the present, and let her know that she is safe, now, in Angela’s arms, even if she soon again will not be so.  Even if Angela cannot convince Fareeha to quit the field, even if she cannot remove the pain of the past, even if she cannot prevent bad days from happening, she can still help in the present, as best she is able.

It is a comfort, if only a small one.

Even if Angela cannot make Fareeha happy—or, rather, cannot make her _be_ happy, a small distinction but an important one—she can help her, nonetheless, can do all that Fareeha will allow to remind her partner that they are here, in the present, and not wherever it is Fareeha's mind wanders to on too-long nights.

When they first became a couple, it was always Fareeha who held her, not because she did not _want_ to hold her girlfriend, but because the latter could not bear to be held, to be vulnerable, to admit to needing and to place herself in a position where, if Angela had any sort of ill-intent, it would be so, so easy to take advantage, to strike.

This is not to say that Fareeha expected an attack from Angela, or from anyone, but trauma is not something that can be reasoned with, and if Angela held Fareeha, her girlfriend had warned her, there was no guarantee that she would not receive an elbow to the solar plexus for her troubles. So, in the early days of their relationship, she refrained.

Now, Fareeha knows her well enough, her scent, the rhythm of her breathing, the too-cold temperature of her skin, that she need not worry about Fareeha acting on instinct and accidentally harming her—now, she is a source of comfort in and of herself—and she is allowed, finally, to hold Fareeha, to pull her girlfriend to her chest, cradle her in her arms, and whisper that things will be not _well_ but better, in the morning, that she is here, and she will not leave Fareeha alone to her thoughts.

(It is easier on both of them, her being able to do this, is something that the both of them needed, even if she did not know it at first. Helping Fareeha helps _Angela_ too, to feel less powerless in the face of the suffering of those whom she loves, to accept Fareeha's decision to _endure_ pain, for others, to dare to hope that one day, when they are retired and all of this is over, there is a scenario where they are happy, together, are as close to whole as either of them can come.)

Tonight is a bad night, Angela knows it before Fareeha even steps in the door, knows it from how long her girlfriend’s run this morning was, how terse her answers to questions over lunch, how faraway the look in her eyes at a meeting in the afternoon.  Unlike Angela, whose distress is sharp, intense, acute, often lasting no more than two hours at most before she pushes it from her mind and forces herself to move on, to focus elsewhere, Fareeha’s moods change slowly, although they are felt no less deeply.  Troubling thoughts and memories are not dealt with so quickly or recklessly as Angela’s, but stay there, in her mind for morning, evening, and night—they will not have faded by the time she retires to their quarters.

Fareeha will not sleep easily tonight, and Angela does not plan on doing so either, plans on holding her girlfriend and drifting slowly off to sleep, letting her know that she is safe, that he is secure, that there is nothing she need fear for she is well, now, in Angela’s arms, and no matter what she has seen, what has happened to her, what she could not and did not want to do, Angela knows, and she forgives her, loves her despite everything.

Of course, what Angela plans and what actually comes to pass are rarely one and the same thing.

Everything is normal through dinner, even if Fareeha is distant, is terse, is clearly concerned with something that happened in some other time and place.  Everything is normal when, afterwards, they sit on their couch together, each of them occupied with another activity, even if Fareeha is not reading, tonight, or working on a model ship, or pursuing one of her other hobbies, but is instead seemingly lost in thought, her head resting in Angela’s lap, humming every now and again at the stroke of Angela’s fingers through her hair.  Everything is normal as they climb into bed with one another, Fareeha on her side and Angela wrapped around her back, like she always is on nights like this, the smell of Fareeha’s hair thick in her nose, and her hand resting on Fareeha’s hip—for even now, her girlfriend does not like to be held around he waist, if Angela is behind her, does not like to feel pinned down.  Everything is normal, until it is not. 

On the better nights like this, Fareeha falls asleep quickly, quietly, Angela murmuring soft reassurances in her ear all the while.  On the worse ones, she shakes silently, crying inaudibly and unwilling—unable?—to share her pain.  Tonight, she does neither of these things, instead reaches her arm, the one that is flesh and blood and not a prosthetic, down to grasp the hand at her hip, and she moves it.

(It should not surprise Angela as much as it does—sometimes, things do not go according to plan.  Sometimes, human desire is too complex to predict and to chart, and people do not behave how you expect them to.  Sometimes, people want comfort in strange ways.)

When Fareeha moves Angela’s hand down from her hip to her crotch, rolls her hips almost questioningly against it, Angela does not object, does not express her surprise, does nothing which might been seen as a negative, only seeks confirmation, asks “Are you sure?” because although she has no strong objections, it surprises her that Fareeha would be in the mood for something like this, right now. 

“Please,” says Fareeha, and the pleading in her voice is not the usual, pleasurable kind, says not _I want you_ or _I need it_ or _I’m close_ or any of the other things which Fareeha generally means, when she says please under similar circumstances, but instead sounds to Angela’s ears like _I need to know that you want me, even now_.

Who is Angela to say no?

(Of course, she does not _want_ Fareeha, not like she normally does, is not the least bit aroused by seeing the way Fareeha is now, in need of reassurance, but she still _loves_ her, still wants her to be happy, and has no objection to doing this, to touching her, if it would make her feel just a little less alone, less unwanted.  Arousal and orgasm are far from the only end goal of sex.)

Normally, this does not happen _like this_ , Fareeha’s back to her, hardly a word of ramp up.  But normally this happens for different reasons, and whatever it is she needs right now—sex is only a means to an end, so it makes sense that it would not take the form that it usually does.

When she slips her hand beneath the waistband of Fareeha’s sleep pants, she finds that her girlfriend is not particularly aroused yet, despite the roll of hips into her fingers.  She thinks about reaching for the lube in the bedside table, but that has only ever been used on her, and she does not want to do anything that Fareeha might not like, particularly not now.  Instead, she props herself up on her free arm so that she is half sitting above Fareeha, and can reach to suck kisses on the side of her girlfriend’s neck.

Slowly.  They should take this slowly. 

The taste of Fareeha’s skin is the same as ever, and her pulse is just as strong beneath Angela’s lips—that is some comfort.

(In her worst nightmares, Fareeha slips away from her, does not fall in battle but instead grows progressively more haunted by it, drifts further and further from the woman she once was until one day, Angela looks up and there is nothing left of her.  But she need not worry about that now, Fareeha is here, is in her arms, is still reaching out to her when she needs something to tether her to the present.  The pulse beneath her lips is picking up.)

One of Fareeha’s hands, the left, this time, intertwines with Angela’s urges her to move faster by moving with it, metal cold against Angela’s skin, and she can see the other move against Fareeha’s skin, ghosting over the most sensitive parts of her stomach and sides, then up to touch her breasts. 

Beneath her, Fareeha’s breathing picks up slightly, is audible in the still, dark room, hitches slightly when Angela rocks her own hips into Fareeha’s.  It is a comfort—is a comfort to know that Fareeha is here, with her, a comfort to know that Fareeha can rely on her, a comfort to know that despite whatever is happening in Fareeha’s mind she is still willing to be vulnerable, even if only like this.

She is more than willing—she is _eager_ , Angela can feel it in the way Fareeha rocks into the touches, in the way her neck arches, in the wetness that has begun to gather beneath Angela’s fingertips.

Moving her mouth from Fareeha’s neck to whisper in her ear, she asks Fareeha, “Are you ready for me?” and nips at the shell of Fareeha’s ear in reprimand when all she gets in response is a nod, if a fervent one.  “Tell me,” says she.

(She cannot ask Fareeha to voice anything more, does not dare to, though she wishes she could make Fareeha open up to her, make her share what it is that bothers her so, because then, maybe, she could do more to help than _this._ But she will not press, dare not, will ask of Fareeha only that which she knows her girlfriend is willing to give, and nothing more.  With that, she will do what she can, and trust that if Fareeha needed anything more than this, she would say so.)

“Yes,” Fareeha tells her, and then, “I want—” a pause as Angela traces around her entrance, dips just the tip of a finger inside to gather wetness, “—more.”

Such is not a difficult thing to oblige.  It is an easy enough matter to slip one finger inside of Fareeha, at this point, would probably be easy enough to start with two, but Angela wants to be careful, wants to be gentle as possible, tonight.  Fareeha deserves to be treated with tenderness, if not by life, then at least like this.

There is a sound from Fareeha, almost a whimper, when Angela begins to move inside her, so different from the sounds she usually makes, smaller, somehow.  For a moment, Angela worries, draws her head back to look, thinking to ask another question, _Are you sure?_ or _Should I slow down?_ or something similar, but before she can, Fareeha’s free hand is on top of hers, again, urging her to move, and so Angela does not press.

(Not now.  Later, she will ask, will discuss this—what brought this on—when Fareeha wants to talk about it, seems ready to.  Now is not that time, not when Fareeha is moving more and more insistently against her, when she asks, again, for more, pressing back against Angela when she adds a second finger.)

After she adds a second finger, Fareeha is more vocal—even if the way in which she is, sighs and gentle sounds, is different from her usual—and presses the palm of Angela’s hand down such that there is pressure on her clit.

Normally, Angela might tease her for moving so quickly, but she does not do so, now, does not want to ruin things by speaking. 

(It feels as if she might, as if there is something more intimate, now, in the silence, in simply being close to Fareeha.  Perhaps that _is_ true.  Angela has never been good at comforting people, has never said the right words, or hugged tightly enough, or done whatever it is that one expects, when being comforted.  This, however, she can do; she knows what sweet nothings to whisper against Fareeha’s skin, knows how tightly to hold a lover, knows what Fareeha wants from her, like this.  Perhaps this can be a form of comfort, in and of itself, can be enough, not just a means to an end but an end in and of itself.)

With Fareeha pressed up against her like this, their legs tangles together at the ankle, Fareeha held securely in their arms, their hands moving together, it is easy to forget that they exist separately outside of this moment, easy to imagine for a moment what it would be to always be able to hold Fareeha, to protect her.  It is a beautiful dream.

Reality is this: when this is over, the heat of Fareeha’s skin against hers, the stickiness of sweat, will be unpleasant, and they will break apart, will need space to breathe and to recollect themselves before they fall asleep, just barely touching.

Reality is this: even now, she cannot know what it is that happens in Fareeha’s mind, cannot truly shield Fareeha from anything, can only know what Fareeha tells her and help how Fareeha allows her.

Reality is this: sometimes the illusion of oneness, the feeling of connection in the moment, the dream of it—that _is_ enough, and she need not be always there and do everything in order to do what Fareeha needs from her, to be the person Fareeha needs in her life.

And what does Fareeha need?  Truly, Angela cannot know—but she does know what Fareeha wants, can tell from the way Fareeha has begun to shake, eyes screwing further shut and sounds finally, finally growing louder. 

If this were happening under other circumstances, she might draw things out, might slow down to prolong them, might even still her fingers entirely until Fareeha demanded more from her—but this time, she does not, speeds her fingers up, moves the heel of her palm to press harder against Fareeha, moves her mouth to kiss Fareeha’s cheek, before telling her it is okay to come, now, that she is beautiful, that she is loved. 

Fareeha’s orgasm is a quiet one—she stills, rather than moving more, does not say anything, but Angela feels the release around her fingers, in the way Fareeha goes stiff against her before her whole body seems to melt back into Angela.  Normally, she is not so quiet.  Normally, she is not still.  Normally, she does not cry.

“Are you alright?” Angela finally asks her, once the moment has passed and she has extricated her fingers.  Even if it is only a tear or two, Fareeha crying worries her.

“Yes,” Fareeha says, and sounds drained, but also content.  “More than.”

“You’re sure?” Angela wants to wrap herself tighter around Fareeha, but does not know if that is what she needs right now, needs to be certain that this was really okay.  “It’s not like you to cry.”

“I just…” a pause, but Angela does not dare say anything, lest Fareeha not finish the sentence.  “I felt safe,” Fareeha concludes, after a minute or so, “And loved.  And it was—I didn’t expect—it’s a lot.”

“Oh,” Angela says, and then, “I _do_ love you, Fareeha.”

“I know,” says she, and then, “Hold me a little longer?”

“Of course,” Angela answers, for she will hold Fareeha whenever she needs.

Perhaps Angela cannot solve everything, cannot stop Fareeha from being hurt, but it is enough to love her, to make her feel safe, to know that she at least has the power to do that much.

**Author's Note:**

> sorry to anyone looking for anything super explicit bc i know this was much heavier on the intimacy than the smut but like. sometimes u just need ur gf to cuddle u and finger u lovingly. the end
> 
> hopefully u enjoyed! lmk ur thoughts & have a great day


End file.
